


Now We Are Practical Men Of The World

by lollard



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Justified
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lollard/pseuds/lollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If it wasn't for the fact that Ripper was nearly sold out through next week, Haymitch would gladly let these jars drop for the pleasure of going after Crowder's smug face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now We Are Practical Men Of The World

It's known, even among the Peacekeepers, that the Hob is where you go to trade in illegal matter. It's known that the Hob is the one place that's reliably open at all hours of the evening, for one thing or another. 

After dark is when Haymitch likes to come down to restock, when it occurs to him. When he notices it's time to visit Ripper again. He's tried to get Ripper to tell him her methodology for white lightning, but she never fails to shake her head and take his money. 

Ripper's one of the few who can be relied upon to be in the Hob at night. Most of the other traders like to call it an evening after third shift descends into the mine, thinking that as most of the Seam folk have retreated to their pallets, what little profit that might be garnered isn't worth the lost sleep. But Ripper's there. Greasy Sae's sometimes got the ends of her leftovers, and when squirrel's involved Haymitch will sometimes do business. 

But as he weaves through the Hob -- not quite stumbling, not yet -- he notices there are even fewer people in there than usual, this time of night. _Just a slow night_ , Haymitch thinks, _happens_. Especially this time of year. It's winter, not near yet time for the Reaping, and those who don't have reason to be out this late would rather avoid the snow. Even Haymitch. 

He trips, then, over some unseen object -- a rock, an old can, an old piece of equipment. It doesn't matter. 

What matters is that someone catches his elbow. 

Haymitch immediately twists, lashing out, falling to the ground in the process.

"Easy," a man's voice murmurs. "Easy, Brother Abernathy." A tall man dressed in black emerges from the shadows, dark hair standing on end. He holds out a hand; the weak light from the lamp overhead catches on the man's face. 

Haymitch ignores the hand and starts picking himself up -- himself and the blessedly unbroken jars of lightning. "Boyd." He doesn't trouble to sound friendly. "Late for you."

"I go where I am needed, Brother Abernathy." Boyd Crowder slips his hands in the pockets of his jacket -- frayed, but lined with fleece. "I tend to my flock. It's my calling, and I must answer."

Haymitch grunts. He doesn't know why Crowder bothers with religion, whether from a theological standpoint or the standpoint where everybody in District Twelve knows it's a cover for Boyd's real business, which is carefully shepherding a little flock of plants outside the fence that some in the district like to smoke as a little escape. Not to mention Crowder's protection scheme pitting the merchants against the Seam. To Crowder's credit, the profits he makes do seem to show up in strange places -- mysterious coats appearing on children after the first snow, an extra bolt of cloth or tin of oil slipped in the order of a family with too many children to support -- but Haymitch is sure, quite sure, that the only people who are richer than Boyd Crowder in District Twelve are the mayor and himself. 

And that's the most damnable thing of all: that so-called church Crowder runs seems to give genuine comfort to the people who go. And if the church doesn't, the leaf Crowder grows will. 

No, Haymitch doesn't like Boyd Crowder much, and that's because Haymitch doesn't understand Crowder. He's man enough to admit that much. 

"And who's been calling tonight?" Haymitch doesn't know why he asks. Maybe so he can cling to some sense of dignity as he gathers up his mason jars. "Cray? You supplying him with more girls?"

Crowder's eyes blaze. "Now, Brother Abernathy." But his voice is soft. "That remark is uncalled for. What those young women do, they do out of necessity, to feed their families. I imagine that if they take any pleasure in it, then that pleasure is feigned. I certainly take no pleasure in seeing our young women brought to that degree of desperation."

"You could afford to give them bread," Haymitch snaps, picking up his fourth jar and straightening.

"As could you, Brother Abernathy." Crowder's back to serenity, smiling, looking at the jars in Haymitch's hands before letting his gaze snap back to Haymitch's face. 

If it wasn't for the fact that Ripper was nearly sold out through next week, Haymitch would gladly let these jars drop for the pleasure of going after Crowder's smug face. 

"Be that as it may -- " And Haymitch is pretty sure Crowder sees that; why else change the subject? "While I take pride, though not too much pride, as that would be unseemly, in meeting the needs of the spirit of our people, I have never trafficked in meeting the needs of the flesh. Not in that way. It's not my style." Crowder steps in. "Were you planning on spreading that rumor?"

Drunk as he is, arms full of lightning, Haymitch never blinks. "They wouldn't care. Even if I did. Why expend that effort?"

Just like that, the moment snaps: Crowder flashes him a grin, ducking his head away in quiet laughter, and steps aside. "Brother Abernathy, the storm's picking up outside, and you've a burden to carry. I think I might pass by the Victor's Village on my way home if you'd consent to my company."

It's entirely possible it's the alcohol that makes Haymitch grunt, "It's not a date, Crowder," as he moves past Boyd. But he doesn't stop Boyd from following him, either. 

The two men leave the Hob, crunching through the snow. There's not too much of it -- the last storm went through four days ago, meaning the path's been shoveled well enough that they're not wading, but it's slippery. Haymitch supposes Crowder's silence isn't unsurprising, under those circumstances, but he was expecting a sermon. 

He doesn't pause when they reach the Village -- just heads toward the steps of his house. 

"You know the difference between you and me, Brother Abernathy?"

Haymitch stops, but doesn't turn around. He supposes it was too much to expect to get out of an evening walk with Boyd Crowder without some stupid sop toward philosophy that means nothing. 

"You can give up on them. And perhaps you're entitled. Perhaps it came with the house."

Haymitch sees red. The lightning goes in what's left of a drift. He starts to turn around.

Crowder still stands there with his hands in his pockets against the cold. "But giving up on them is as much a luxury as that house before us and as that liquid you just relegated to the elements. There are more productive ways to escape."

Haymitch opens his mouth and nothing comes out -- like a shift whistle at the mine, jammed. In Haymitch's case, it's rage.

Crowder smiles at him; there's something gentle to it, and yet somehow completely savage. "You have a good night, Brother Abernathy. I'm praying for you." He turns and crunches away in the snow. 

Haymitch could go after him. Beat the shit out of him, until Crowder's blood sprays into the snow and Haymitch feels his heart stop. Cray can lock him up. Haymitch will be a footnote on news broadcasts, if he's mentioned at all, and he'll be mysteriously found in his cell with strips of a thin blanket around his neck, and the story will be that he hanged himself. 

Or he could just pick up the damn jars and go inside and attempt to forget this conversation ever happened.

He won't give Crowder the satisfaction of a sigh -- even though the other man has already melted into the night like a ghost. Haymitch bends, collects his jars, and makes his way toward the steps to his darkened house.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Home Again Garden Grove" by the Mountain Goats.


End file.
